


Punk/Dolly Meet Cute

by TrashyTime



Series: Lolita Is PUNK AF [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Epilepsy, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Human Disaster Jaskier, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Lolita Fashion, M/M, Other, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Punk, Trans, no beta we die like witchers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23837845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashyTime/pseuds/TrashyTime
Summary: Jaskier is having a horrible day after a Lolita meetup and tea. He forgot his meds and this migraine is a doozy. He's about to pack it in and suck it up to use his emergency backup caller when a deep voiced stranger steps in to help.Suddenly he has a Biker Santa carrying him home and generally being a perfect gentleman. Between Geralt's punk patches and his sweet tender kindness, is it any wonder Jaskier's overlooking the fact the guy may be twice his age? Also Jaskier has been on this earth nearly 24 years and now is the worst time to realize he may have a thing for older men. Or at least one older man. Who knew?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Lolita Is PUNK AF [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717672
Comments: 46
Kudos: 296





	Punk/Dolly Meet Cute

**Author's Note:**

> [Lolita Explains What Lolita Fashion Is In 5 min, a video basics guide.](https://youtu.be/A7V3CVEa80E)  
> Please watch this if Lolita is new to you and you are curious about this fashion. Jaskier has a lot of OTT Sweet and classic sweet leanings. 
> 
> Jaskier is 23, nearly 24.  
> Geralt is 37.  
> Geralt thinks Jaskier is his age after spotting the diplomas on his wall.  
> Jaskier thinks Geralt is in his 50s because of all that silver hair. It's a train wreck in the best ways. No neither discovers they're both wrong yet. 8D
> 
> Enjoy the meet-cute.

Jaskier stumbles, his head throbbing and feeling awful in every way possible. He’s had a migraine brewing for hours and he just needs to get home. Except he can’t think. His head’s pounding and it feels full of cotton and he thinks he might maybe be crying. He’s huddled over his closed parasol like it might double as a cane supporting half his weight, hiding on the bench as if he curls tight enough the pain of the bus moving might dwindle. His skirts are puffy to the point that no one bumps into him at least.

Jaskier loses track of stops, of anything but not throwing up or crying or passing out and there is someone gently asking in a really deep voice if he’s okay. But he isn’t. “No, I, migraine. My medication was at home.” He manages, and he feels like he’s coming apart. Even stringing those words together is a task of herculean proportions. This sort of situation is exactly why his family wanted him to just come home but he refuses. He refuses to conform and to give up himself, just because his brain is trying to kill him. 

The guy makes a sympathetic noise, and there is someone kneeling next to his parasol, on a moving bus and that’s silly. That’s silly right? It’s so hard to think. “Yeah, looks like you’ve got a brutal one. This a new level or just because you missed the dose at the first signs?” Whoever deep voice is, he’s not new to migraines. If only the light of the bus didn’t make him want to claw at his face and dig a hole into the ground to crawl into, he could look at whoever was trying to help him. However if he could do that, he wouldn’t need the help. 

“Second. Need home- don’t hospital, it will just be hell on top of hell. Medication at home.” The words are thick and clumsy as they slip off Jaskier’s tongue, heavy and awkward to shape into a sentence he only half thinks might make sense. 

Another soft, understanding “Hmm” and whoever it is isn’t just pawing at him or checking his pulse or lecturing him. “If you have the address I can help walk you home? Or call someone to come pick you up?” 

Jaskier has never regretted the decision to move across the country for his postgrad, like he has in this moment. Or that his meetup today was the first time he had bothered to go out into the community since he moved. He knew no one outside of a few professors, really. Not close enough to beg a ride. 

“Fuck- I.” Trying to remember his new address was drawing a blank and he presses a shaking hand to his forehead as if trying to shove his brain back in, breathing through the pain even as his styled hair and headpiece bunch over his fingers there. “Phone- I, address. On ICE. I updated it.” He feels like he may hurl and he fumbles twice before unlocking his phone. He hopes he unlocked it. If he didn’t he’s fucked. 

He might be okay because deep voice has massive strong hands, gently cupping his and tapping the phone a few times before rustling around to probably enter the information onto his own phone. Jaskier vaguely wondered, in that shocky muzzy cotton clouded way, if deep voice was a social worker or an EMT. Fuck, that would be just his damn luck. Delayed lecture.

“Fuck. You needed off last stop.” Helpful Stranger groans before he stands and the faint ding of the stop request sounds a second later. 

Jaskier fumbles putting away his phone, nausea rising again as the body ache throbs like a living thing writhing inside him as he shifts. He realizes, with a sudden painful clarity, that he won’t be up for a four block walk in this condition. Not if he wants to get his tabs in time. “Fuck indeed.” He mumbles back, despite that probably making no sense. 

Helpful Stranger snorts, then asks with concern, “You gonna be okay for the walk? Gonna need a hand?” And damn. Helpful is- probably a mind reader. Or a Doctor. Maybe. 

Jaskier makes a rueful sound before replying, “More like an Uber and a five minute break in the bullshit that is my life so I can get up five flights of stairs.” The second wave of nausea and it’s best buddy vertigo were slamming in like the shittiest party guests, and he needed his tabs two hours ago. He has maybe a half hour before he’s into the fun seizure portion of his neurology is out to kill him just like it killed his uncle and grandmother and he should have known better than to go out without his medicine.

Jaskier wants to cry because an Uber will take too long, and that isn’t even covering the stairs. Or the door. Or finding his tabs the first go. He scrunches his eyes and he stifles a sound of pain. The words the other man says startle him. “Well, if you consent to me touching you to carry you- I can probably more than beat the time of an Uber. You said tabs- probably time sensitive.” Jaskier wants to open his eyes. He wants to look at this man who is offering so much for a man in a lute covered pastel lolita dress with small musical notes and a miniature lute on his headband. 

Also he wants to see what man thinks he can carry 140 lbs of 5’8 man in 10 lbs of dresses and accessories, up five flights of stairs after four blocks of walking. “But I don’t even know your name.” He tries for a joke, but it comes out with a wince. 

There’s something like amusement, layered in with the concern as the helpful stranger with the deep voice finally gives him a name to call him. “Geralt, I won’t even fireman carry you.” 

Wow, it should be impossible for Jaskier to laugh right now, but a bark of it still escapes him. He winces and presses his hand to his mouth before managing, “Pity- I am sure it’s a spectacular view. Jaskier. You sure you’re up for this?” Jaskier really doesn’t want to call an ambulance. But he can. He can call one, he’s not stupid enough to not wear his medical alert system relay button. It, and the band inscriptions listing his Migralepsy and most volatile medications, never leave his wrist. Even if they are impossible to style around. 

Geralt gently cups Jaskier’s hands in both of his, and it dwarfs his. This guy must be a damn giant. “The finest. But you have to be in a condition to appreciate it. You just focus on not doing a technicolor yawn while I carry you, deal?” 

Just like that Jaskier is stifling a snort and it almost feels like it’s all going to be okay. “Deal- I will try to get my key out by the time we get there.” He offers as an agreement. 

Those huge hands are connected to equally massive arms, and a studded leather jacket that feels more like armor than anything Jaskier has touched outside of a Ren Faire. And hello libido, kindly fuck off, as hot as it was that those muscles are not quivering and the man is carrying him as gently as any bride in a cartoon, springing an awkward boner while trying to just focus on not doing exactly as he had been explicitly requested not to would just be one straw too many. For Jaskier’s own sake, regardless of if this Geralt would just laugh it off or whatever. 

Jaskier is honestly unsure what to make of the man that smells so heavily of onions, garlic, and leather oil. He can feel hair long enough it touches his face as they go. Its texture a bit rough, a little dry and obviously not as well cared for as his own silky tresses- fuck yes he was vain about his hair damn it, but it was long. Not for the first time he wished he dared open his eyes to look at the man carrying him. Instead he rested his head into the crook of a strong neck, not quite in a bridal carry, legs more sitting on palm and fingers of one hand, the other cupped up under his opposite armpit, his own arm slung around the broad shoulder. His key is in his purse on the lanyard, and he has it fished out with his other hand. 

Somehow they manage to make it in, up the stairs and to the door. An even bigger miracle, they manage the door and Jaskier is never gladder he keeps such a decently clean flat as he is right now. He is settled on the couch, and Jaskier guides him through the medications he needs. Water, in one of the plastic cups, is fetched, and his shoes are carefully and gently removed. At the point he expects Geralt to bugger off, instead there is the sound of the much larger man settling himself down on the ground to hold his hand. Which is bullshit. But not nearly as bullshit as that entirely too perfect voice asking softly, “Are you sound sensitive, or may I ask if you have any prefered pronouns?” 

Jaskier himself sounds almost winded, as he finally manages an answer. The desire to snap, to question if his own clothes had a gender, was burned away as much by gratefulness as a bone weary ache and exhaustion. “He/Them. And you?” He expects something derisive, he gets instead “He/Him. Let me know anytime it’s not He/Him, or did that mean you don’t mind neutral They, or both apply?” And how is Geralt even real, with an answer like that?

Jaskier is silent a half beat, and he lifts the damp cloth draped over his eyes and tries to see. Everything is blurry brilliant blobs, and he must be having some pretty epic bullshit because he swears Geralt looks like biker Santa and that can’t be right. He squeezes his eyes shut again and presses his hand not being held so gently, into it. “Both. You have someone in your life that’s trans?” He doesn’t know why he asks, what he’s fishing for. What he’s doing keeping Geralt nearby, he just met him and he was probably on the bus for some reason and- 

“Yeah, my kid. She’s a menace, but I want to always support her. She also has epilepsy. Saw that on your bracelet.” Geralt speaks up, interrupting the wild crash of Jaskier’s thoughts. 

Huh. So Geralt being some sort of Biker Santa may have been closer to reality than not. Also trans kid. Probably a teen. Jaskier rubs his forehead above the cloth. “Yeah. You don’t have to babysit me if you’ve got someplace to go.” He’s almost proud of himself for saying that, instead of something like how he is almost 24 and has 3 degrees under his belt and doesn’t need or want to be adopted as someone’s project. 

He can feel the shrug through the hands on his hand, the shifting creak of leather loud in the quiet of his living room. “Was coming home from taking my kid to the airport. She only visits for a few weeks during summer. She’s got freshman year to worry and prepare for.” Jaskier could hear the fondness and also a bit of the longing in the man’s voice. He obviously loved his daughter, be she some variant of gender fluid or trans girl, that endless support was- shockingly comforting to hear. Even if it did feel awkward to realize the guy sitting beside him could be in his 50s and honestly see Jaskier as some sort of kid. 

So awkward. But it distracted Jaskier from the pain- let him spend energy focusing on something else not nausea or pain or aches or anything else. “At least she has your support. Being a teen is never easy.” And wasn’t that the truth. Especially when one doesn’t fit the mold of society. 

Geralt snorts softly, “Yeah my Ex and her wife do a good job. Ciri’s amazing, and every time she comes over, my brothers all take time to spoil her rotten. Be it training her to fight when she was younger or, just generally being uncles. If she ever has problems bigger than the usual teenage ones- we have her covered.” Jaskier can feel himself relaxing slowly into sleep, the deep low voice tugging at his senses, the hand holding his so comforting. 

It almost feels like coming home, even if they’re total strangers. Which- just shouldn’t be. But is.

He sleeps a few hours at least, waking to hear Geralt over by the kitchen. “Yeah, yeah, shut up Lamb- Jaskier’s still sleeping, and no I don’t have a thing for saving people. Fuck off. Yeah- I am. Yeah- I will. Tell Papa I will bring home rolls on my way. Yeah- oh fuck you Lamb.” there was the sort of lazy vitriol and tired air that spoke of watching siblings interact. Jaskier himself is the youngest of his family by 12 years. He never had such a close bond with siblings, but he had watched others. He eased the now mostly dry cloth up off of his eyes and very carefully looked up over the couch back at where Geralt was talking to what had to be his brother on the phone. 

Biker Santa, indeed. Huh. Okay then. He has silver-white hair and lots of it, and what looks like riding leathers with studs all over it. When he turns in the kitchen, the light catches on, dozens of small scars across and scattered in his fluffy white beard. They look kind of like shrapnel scars. Maybe from a biking accident or something. He looks ridiculously large in his kitchen, all black and silver and white amongst the cute non-sticky cling on wallpaper Jaskier had covered the walls in, and the various art prints he had hung up. It was- how was this man the same man that had carried him and been talking about his daughter. 

Jaskier’s head gave a residual pulse and he laid back down, groaning. “Gotta go, Lamb, sounds like he’s waking up- Just tell Papa I am okay you asshole.” And Jaskier has to smother a smile. For a man that has to be 6’4 if he’s an inch, and about as broad across as a goddamn mountain, Geralt is obviously a loving man. He talks about his daughter with such fondness, carries a stranger home and keeps an eye on him, calls his father Papa even when he’s a grown ass man by many years… it’s crazy how he looks so dangerous but is so very much the opposite in every regard. 

Jaskier opens his eyes to look up into Geralt’s face again, and he can’t help his shocked breath as he sees those eyes for the first time. Brilliant golden amber. Gorgeous. Geralt’s eyes widen a little and he seems to also catch his breath for some reason. Yeah. Okay- so that’s a thing. Right. 

“Please, don’t let me delay you, if you need to go. I can make my way around.” He tries on, instead of making a fool out of himself saying something about how unfairly gorgeous the older man is. He has to be in his 50s with that hair. He doesn’t have more than a few lines around his eyes, and honestly Jaskier has as many as the older man, but he’s not a dyed silver from the way his brows are also the same. And wow. That’s something to think about later, how he finds the older man very hot. He is probably half this guy’s age. That should not be hot. 

Geralt makes a rueful sound and shakes his head, “Only if you want me gone- I was just telling my brother Lambert to deal with a few chores and let our dad know I didn’t get arrested again and not to worry.” 

Jaskier’s head tilts to the side and he parses that statement with a raised eyebrow. “Again?” the single word drawled out and leaving the larger man flushing a pretty pink over such pale skin. 

“Yes. I tend to get caught up in protests and marches- and I am not the, hmm, smallest man. So when cops show up, they tend to focus on me.” Geralt shrugs it off as he says it, except Jaskier can tell that this man, who dresses to the nines in leather and studs, is nothing about subtlety or shirking the focus. In fact seems to seek it out as a diversion for others if he is reading him right, as Jaskier looks over the jacket he sees it has patchs that say things like “Fuck the System” to “Not my President” to, and he can’t help goggling a little, “Punk Respects Pronouns” and “You can call me a FEMINIST if you want to” along with a large patch that shows a punk with a mohawk punching a clansman and the script “FREE OUR NATION” alongside it, across from a patch that declares “I Punch Nazis To Stay In Shape”. 

Geralt is nothing like what Jaskier expects. He’s fascinating. Geralt meanwhile is looking over Jaskier as if he’s the fascinating one. Jaskier flushes a little, smoothing down his pastel blue and lute covered dress in a few little brushes, his music note patterned tights rubbing on the fabric of the couch as he shuffles his feet over, preparing to brave trying to sit up. “Totally an accident, I am sure.” He grunts while slowly levering himself up on the couch. Geralt hovers, hands moving as if he wants to help but doesn’t want to interfere if Jaskier has it. Which- huh. 

It doesn’t feel smothering or irritating. He will look at that later. Jaskier flushes as his stomach rumbles at him, his brain gives off that achy hung over feeling as it throbs a few times at him, and he feels so very tired for a Saturday evening. “So, I do really appreciate the ride home. Even if I couldn’t enjoy the view. I can offer food, before you go- or a raincheck and make something fit for proper thanks later.” Which, wow, that sounded entirely more flirty than intended. 

Jaskier skirts a look back up from the couch in time to see Geralt swallow and make an adorably awkward little half nod head bob that left his long silver hair catching and combing itself on the spikes that surround each patch. That should not be as adorable as it is, damn it. 

Jaskier lets his eyes close again. Fighting residual vertigo, while also not wanting to see how a man probably twice his age is handling that flirty tone. Again, seriously libido, time and place for new discoveries. He tries not to startle when the silence is broken. "I have some skill making basic food. How about I help you make dinner and clean up tonight, and sometime next week we meet up someplace for dinner? Someplace worthy of such a pretty dress?" 

Jaskier's eyes fly wide as he looks up, brows both raising. That was flirty. Geralt was flirting back. "It has to be worthy of your leather too. No way I want you to have to change, for meeting up with me." And the same for Geralt expecting him to maybe modify himself, not on the table for either of them. 

There was a pause, before Geralt's smile grew larger as he stumbled out a few stilted words. "I. Yes. Thank you." How did a man make it to half a century so adorably able to be flustered? Geralt dusted his hands on his thighs then turned towards the kitchen, as if Jaskier hasn't seen the faint flush to his pale cheeks already. "So. Any special requests? I assume you won't have anything you're allergic to in the house." That deep voice did manage to sound confident and competent, but Jaskier can’t forget that flush.

Again with that warm tingly wanting sensation, his libido was seriously out of control. "Have you looked in the fridge or pantry yet?" Jaskier asks, entertained as well as touched. Some folks got rightly weirded when they realized just what it was Jaskier had to go through to feed himself. 

He didn't expect Geralt to give him a look like that. As if he was a bit shocked but also sensing the amusement. "Of course not. But I would assume you are on some variation of medical ketogenic diet." Huh. Oh yes, daughter is also epileptic. 

Jaskier's face went through a few expressions, he could feel them if not know what they were, "okay, I have got to stop being shocked by you. Not that it's you particularly. I just, have always had to sit and handhold people through this. Or have them try to dictate what and how I can be. Or both." He knows he grimaces that time. 

Geralt doesn't seem to be offended, he is in fact nodding a little. "Yes, even as an adult, it can not be easy to have people wanting to butt in. If, I feel overbearing, please tell me bluntly?" And the man has at least 80 lbs of muscle and bone on him. There is no way he should be finding him absolutely adorable. Or strangely sweet. 

"Have you been sitting in on my guest lectures?" He teases instead of saying how that touches him. Or something else as utterly embarrassing. 

Geralt shakes his head, "No. Back on track, requests or should I just, see what I can make?" 

Jaskier feels his lips quirk at that. What an invitation, however could he turn it down. He smiles wider, "It has been a while since I was pleasantly surprised. Wow me?" He offers a slight challenge but also an opportunity to really do so. 

Geralt, in turn, grins at the challenge, marching to the kitchen with what looks to be some sort of military posture. He moves about the kitchen, opening cabinets, taking measure of the utensils and basics he has to work with. Over the next half hour, Jaskier carefully levers himself up, and heads to the bathroom. He straightens up and fixes his headdress and hair, coming out in time for delightful scents and the sounds of something coming out of the oven and something being pulled from the fire on the stove. He wanders over to his little breakfast nook with the two bar stools placed at the counter edge, to see two place settings and the etched glass plates set out. Large glasses of lemon water beside each. 

Jaskier settles into one of the stools, a little bemused. This is, nothing like he expected a first meeting to go. Or even, perhaps, an impromptu date. That is what it seems to be. An unplanned date. He is glad he had the chance to touch up his makeup and neaten up, and in the kitchen light he can see Geralt himself has a touch of eyeliner, other faint traces of self grooming to set him above the vanilla normals. But does he really want to flirt with a man twice his age? 

Jaskier ruminates on that question as he sips the water, still feeling the absurd delight of being served in his own home like at some fancy restaurant. This, really is one of the better days of his life, he thinks to himself as he sips the water.

**Author's Note:**

> Next fic in this verse is gonna be explicit and pick up immediately after this one, because Jaskier and Geralt went wildly off script. But other scenes in the verse will be Gen or Teen. Feel free to subscribe to it for either.


End file.
